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With the advance in rural living perpetuated by the invention of the 40-acre ranchette, trail ride associations and urban horse owner playdays, the horseshoers of the world have found themselves in a completely new atmosphere of commerce.

Owning a horse is much like wearing a thong bikini-anyone can one but not everyone should.

Ownership of either should require some sort of an application process.

Farriers, or horseshoers as we regular rural people call them, have come from a long dignified line of blacksmiths.

Cowboys at the ranch usually shoe their own until they either are too old or they become financially sound enough to justify the cost of hiring it done.

Historically, a farrier was a horse doctor.

It is only in the last hundred years that people who shod horses began calling themselves farriers and history is not clear on how that transformation came about.

It is unknown who invented the first horseshoe. Early Asian horsemen used horse “booties” made from leather and plants.

During the first century, the Romans made leather and metal shoes called “hipposandals” and by the sixth and seventh centuries, European horsemen had begun nailing metal shoes to horses’ hooves.

Around 1000 AD, cast bronze horseshoes with nail holes became common in Europe. The 13th and 14th centuries brought the widespread manufacturing of iron horseshoes.

Hot-shoeing, the process of heating the horseshoe before shoeing the horse became common in the 16th century.

All this before the first horseshoe was ever patented.

The first notable patent in the U.S. went to Henry Burden in 1835 for a horsehoe manufacturing machine. Burden’s machine made up to sixty horseshoes per hour.

For those that are new to owning a horse and need the services of a hard working iron-pounder to keep your animal shod, here are some tips of etiquette, or as it were, the things you should never say to a horseshoer.

Good Morning. Glad you are here. Can we reschedule? I have a lot going today.

Can you bill me? I left my check book in the car.

I know I said just a trim, but would you go ahead and shoe them as well?

I know it’s been a long day. That’s why I saved the worst one for last.

I don’t understand why the shoes didn’t stay on. I had them done four months ago.

Does it mean my horses have some sort of deficiency when they chew the paint off your truck like that?

Oops, wrong horse.

My weanling colt needs a trim. Maybe you could halter break him while you’re here.

I’ve got a new horse with feet that are in pretty bad shape. The previous owners said their farrier wouldn’t work on him.

I forgot you were coming. I just turned all the horses out.

My last farrier couldn’t finish. They gave me your name and number.

If he didn’t kick like that, I’d trim him myself.

Can we shoe him in the arena? If he rears in the barn, he hits his head.

Can you make it here after 6 p.m. or on Sunday? I have to work.

Good thing you are slow today or he’d have had shoes on when he kicked your truck.

If you will just give each of the dogs a piece of hoof, they will get out from under the horse and quit fighting.

Cowboys are born with a trading gene. Usually this involves swapping horses, livestock, trailers, saddles or even pocketknives.

Horse-trading requires a special language. When cowboys are involved, the buyer should always be in “beware” mode. For those who were not born down dirt roads, here is an example of a few choice phrases of trading vernacular used mostly in print advertisements.

“Very alert 12-year-old gelding, foundation stock, strong, heavy-muscled, will watch a cow. Friendly nature, quiet in the arena. Must see to appreciate. $27,000 or best offer.”

The literal translation is:

* Alert – he will spook if even so much as bug within five miles moves. Nothing is going to sneak up on him.

* Twelve years old is about the age where horses can no longer be positively aged by their teeth. He could be 34.

* Foundation-bred means he looks exactly like a mustang and was adopted from the BLM in their effort to preserve the world before the wild horses eat it up.

* Friendly nature – he will pick your gloves out of your back pocket as well as gnaw on everything in the barn and everybody else’s saddle if tied next to another horse.

* Quiet in the box – he will sit there until next Friday if you don’t liberally apply the spurs when you nod for your steer.

* Must see – the seller is hoping to get you to their pen, lock the gate and not let you out until you buy something.

* The price – that’s always a starting place. Actually, the guy would be happy to see $800 and that horse’s backside out his gate.

The trading world has three basic components: sellers, buyers and tire kickers. The variety of descriptive phrases applied to horses would enchant any clever wordsmith.

“Not the prettiest head you ever saw, but it’s full of cow sense.” That means his head looks like a pump jack, is exactly the same length as his back and it would give most horses whiplash to hold it up.

“He has a smooth little cowboy lope that you’ll love.” This is supposed to infer that he can cover the miles smoothly. Nobody mentioned that it takes the first five miles to get him worked up to this cowboy lope and only 15 steps for him to fall back to that teeth-jarring trot.

“This is a horse that will let you do all the thinking.” A good bit of this required thinking will also involve your spurs.

Whoever started the rumor that rednecks have no style just simply has never spent much time in their presence.

Why just days ago I was buzzing down the highway and as I passed the used junk store a flash of color caught my eye. Lo and behold, there stood the ultimate redneck patio table set. It is the season you know.

It was one of those large wooden cable spools, laid on its side and painted a bright neon sunshine yellow. It was accompanied by four very yellow plastic chairs and obviously sold as a set.

It is nothing out of the ordinary to see such redneck culture in my world. I’ve come to revere the ingenuity of the lifestyle.

More often than not, frugal is carried to new heights — or lows, depending how you look at it. A qualified redneck is a regular patron at any and all auctions held within a two hour driving distance of home and where bargains need not have an identifiable label or use. If the price is right, it will have a new home.

One such prime example of redneckhood said that he had somehow become the proud owner of a Godzilla-size box of coffee filters. He has a percolator so does not use coffee filters. Not being wasteful, he utilized the filters as toilet paper. An added benefit was that it often kept company from over-staying their welcome.

Rednecks are born into the definition.

Some years back, I was watching the “Blue Collar Comedy Tour” on television. It is very funny when you hear what is so true told in stories in which you recognize your relatives.

My son was about 10 years old at the time and after a number of Jeff Foxworthy’s “you might be a redneck” jokes he asked, “Mom, what is a redneck?”

I looked directly at him and said, “You are.”

He immediately laid his hand on his neck and started to ask the logical question. I quickly explained that it didn’t mean the color of his neck exactly. It was more about his closet full of camouflage clothing, the hunting stories he already had stored in his memory and dreams of owning bigger guns, more ATVs and better hunting hounds.

Like the two generations before him, he wears a tag that is supposed to explain how we think and what we like. It seems normal to us and before they came up with the label “redneck,” it had no name, except maybe “hillbilly.”

Not long after this revealing moment in family genealogy, this same boy spent some time grounded from the television except for allowable educational programming. When I set the terms and conditions for his viewing, I had no idea how difficult it would be for this genetically predisposed redneck child to determine what was educational.

In passing through the room, I had to point out to him that “County Music Television” was not considered educational programming.

“Well okay then. Mom, is “Gunsmoke” educational?”

I knew then that the road to civilization was going to be a tricky, slippery slope. And that very likely, I wasn’t the one with the skills to teach him. After all, I was part of those redneck genetics.

He was tall and beautiful with a gentleness that captured my heart. And he loved me like he loved no other. For me, it was this love that defined unconditional love and forever measured the standard.

His name was Ranger. I would stand in the meadow and call his name and he would come to me. With a can of grain and a small rope in my hand, he would let me catch him.

When my dad would try to catch him, he would run off and keep running until dad would have to give up. If Ranger needed caught for anything, I had to do it. I’m sure it was the very foundation of any self-confidence I was to gain in life. He made me feel very special.

He was a dark sorrel gelding that for whatever reason in his golden years, took a liking to a scrawny little girl. I rode him everywhere on a daily basis.

I thought he was the greatest horse in the world never realizing what cautious care he took of me as I explored my world from his back. He jumped over deadfall logs and irrigation ditches slowly and with such caution I thought I was National Velvet and a Grand Prix qualified rider.

I was five years old and didn’t know what magic that was, but only that he stirred in me a love for horses that has lasted beyond the dust-to-dust of his loss.

I never forgot what Ranger meant to me. Years later I watched my own children form attachments to critters – not always horses, but the concepts were the same and memories just as powerful. It seems that for a space of time in the life of child, an animal comes to raise them in a way no human can.

I was sorting through old photos for my now 18-year-old and soon to graduate son and found evidence of his “first loves” on the hoof.

Little cowboys are pretty big in their minds at a very young age. A three year old will pull his hat down tight, buckle up his chaps and insist that he can rope anything that needs roped. In his mind, if dad can do it, by golly so can he.

His first babysitter horse was named Old Man. The solid, seasoned and aged palomino took care of him with only a little indignation for being relegated to the task. But he never wavered in his job.

I watched that horse avoid wreck after wreck and the little cowboy on his back never knew what could have happened. If horses have wings in Heaven, this one was indeed a guardian angel.

When old age finally took the old guy it was a blessing for him, but a sad day for the cowboys, big and little. Now, all these years later, he holds that place in a young man’s heart that none other will ever have. First loves are just that. Always first.

Spring winds bring blowing dirt, maybe a rain cloud and sure enough, the ropers start coming out of the woodwork in droves.

Blowing off the stink of winter is no cheap feat for a roper. He is sure to find that he needs new ropes, his trailer needs a new tire or two and of course, the horses need shod and his entry fee savings didn’t quite grow like he’d planned for it to.

Forcing him to do a little scratchin’ on paper, he’ll run a quick tally for an estimate of what the roping and rodeo season ahead is going to cost him. What does it all mean to him? Absolutely nothing.

Serious discussion around the watering hole has the cowboy making rash statements like “the price of diesel may keep me home a little more this summer.” What he really means is “I may not be able to pay the rent, but I’m not missing a roping!”

Taking an extra job to try help with his personal budget deficit comes up in conversation from time to time. The suggestion of becoming a part time bartender brought a round of applause from fellow ropers followed immediately by requests for confirmed discounts from “friends” who he had not yet met.

If someone with a bookkeeping background were to put the roper’s financials on paper, it would read something like “Income and Expense Statement, Profit Center: Competition Roping.”

The expense column would have a long list of “must haves” that total to a shocking number. The cowboy will qualify the sum with “estimate only – exact records are not required.”

It is hard to tell which comes first, the rope, the horse or the rig. They are listed here in no particular order of importance.

Expense:

Top notch #1 winning rope horse $10,000

Back-up practice horse $9,500

Three-horse slant aluminum trailer $30,000

Two-seater truck to pull trailer $40,000

Seasonal Fuel Costs –Not to be discussed

Ten Corriente steers for practice $5,000

Worthless Blue Heeler dog named Radar $200

Arena for practicing and socializing $5,000

Hydraulic chute (cheaper than a divorce) $3,500

Roping school with National Finals winner $700

Different roping school with a good teacher $700

Entry fees (to date) $900

Equipment upgrade:

New saddle $1,200

EXTREME go and slow bit, $125

Polyethylene urethane no-pressure saddle pad, $125

A box of “no miss” ropes $250

“Never get’em hurt” horse leg-protection $125

Image enhancement:

Space-age biothane tie down $20

Straw hat (came with full-size George Strait picture) $70

Headstall with turquoise $200

Total estimated expense before fuel $107,615

Income:

First in the average at Podunk Arena, Anywhere, USA

3:14 p.m., Sunday, April 1, 2012 $228

Total income (exact figure) $228

In spite of the math, every rodeo ground in America continues to be covered over in trucks, trailers, hats, and swinging ropes throughout the spring, summer, fall and well into winter. It’s a man’s sport, a woman’s sport and a family sport. It appeals to doctors, lawyers, a few Indian chiefs and every now and then, even a genuine cowboy.

If you happen to be looking for a way to put a little disposable income into circulation, buy a rope. The rest will just come naturally.

It comes around every fourth year –a February 29th on the calendar making it a leap year.

Somewhere in folklore, leap year was made into a tradition whereby it is allowable for women to propose marriage to men. Over the centuries, different countries adopted various versions of the tradition and even some penalties if the marriage proposal was refused.

To soften the blow to the pursuing female, a man denying her offer may have to give her a kiss, money or even a “silk gown”. In Denmark, refusal must be compensated by a dozen pair of gloves.

In Greece, marriage in a leap year is considered unlucky and 20 percent of the engaged couples will intentionally avoid getting married in a leap year.

A victim of the Sadie Hawkins girl-catches-guy wedding plan, Sam decided to make it a party. When a wedding happens in ranch country, it’s a big deal. Not everybody wants to go to town to get “hitched.”

Sam selected one of his favorite spots on the ranch and his buddy Dave volunteered to slow roast a hog. The preacher was lined up and a keg of beer ordered. Yep, that should do it, Sam thought.

Mary Margaret had a few ideas of her own about how she thought the wedding should go. She bought the big white dress and lined up her bridesmaids to be dressed in pastels.

There was a slight hitch as one of the bridesmaids ordered her dress in a size smaller than actually required thinking her new diet would work. Plan B was to line up a cousin who was the right size.

In the meantime, Dave butchered a hog, cut it up, seasoned and wrapped it. He dug the fire pit, lined the bottom with wood and went on to his other appointed wedding duties. He’d also been appointed shotgun bearer to follow the bride down the aisle and that required the ol’ double-barrel to be shined up.

Sam, indulging his bride in her desires, agreed to provide the music. The boom box was tested and required only an occasional slap on the side to keep it playing. Waylon and Willie would do fine.

Helpful neighbors had been designated to usher the guests away from the keg to the seating area and to keep the dogs quiet during the ceremony.

Sam was not as totally committed to this project as the bride would have liked, and in an effort to get him involved, she decided they should each write their own vows.

Her vows were very lovely prose, mentioning hearts, flowers, lifelong commitment, a steady partner and love eternal. When his were finally, reluctantly, presented for inspection, she was somewhat taken aback.

The only thing he had planned on saying was “I do. Let’s party.”

Vows said and sighs emitted, the wedding crowd moved down the hill to the patio to celebrate. The pig was unearthed only to discover the fire hadn’t been lit under it. However, this brought only some good-natured funnin’ at Dave, who apparently had lost his train of thought the night before while polishing the shotgun and sampling the keg.

The boom box quit working, and no amount of coaxing could revive it. As it turned out, the music wasn’t any more necessary to a good party than was the shotgun or the roast pig. The properly sampled beer fulfilled Dave’s wedding vow of “let’s party.”

You can’t say that cowboys don’t do things with style and grace. It simply depends on your definition of both.

Saddle up boys, here it comes again. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. It’s the day the entire world is painted with red and pink hearts and accented with roses and chocolate.

Whether this ever-looming V-day is a ploy to stimulate the economy at an otherwise sluggish time of year or an actual holiday to honor the long forgotten patron saint of love, it most definitely puts the pressure on the couples of the world.

I asked one old cowboy what he thought about Valentine’s Day. His reply was well-thought-out honesty. “Not much. I don’t think about it at all. You don’t want to get that started– birthdays, Valentine’s and all those holidays. If you never start paying attention to them, then she never expects it.”

Saint Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome when Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers so he outlawed marriage for young men that were military potentials.

Valentine defied Claudius and continued to perform secret marriages for young lovers. When he was caught, Claudius ordered him put to death.

The legend says that Valentine actually sent the first “valentine” greeting himself. While in prison awaiting his execution, he fell in love with a young girl who visited him every day. Before his death, he wrote a letter that he signed “From your Valentine.”

There will be some “romantic” gestures made by those residing at the end of dirt roads where the moon kisses the stars while the howl of a lone coyote breaks the silence of night.

Not likely to be wine and roses, however, a cowboy on a Valentine’s Day date will offer a romantic late night walk through the frosty pastures for a “just once more” check of the cows. After all, it is calving season.

I got a Valentine card one time that was written in Spanish because that was what was left at the store in town. It said something about my corazón and forever. My cowboy ate the chocolates on the way back to the ranch and, with no apology, told me he knew I was on a diet and he sure didn’t want be responsible for any failure.

A veteran ranch wife who is still waiting for her cowboy to grow up, phoned me and the topic of Valentine’s Day came up. I ventured to ask if she had received a gift from her love of 35 years.

“Well, he did ask if I wanted something,” she said. “But after my Christmas gift, I was afraid to let him think it was time for another gift.”

I asked the obvious, “What did you get for Christmas?”

“He brought me a cat from the pound.”

“Did you ask for a cat or even want a cat?”

“No to both. This gift just fit his budget. It was free.”

It’s those tender moments of adoring love that make a gal think seriously about returning the sentimental thought with something equally as endearing as a well-timed “Well, kiss my corazón …. dear!”

I love Western Music, both Cowboy Music and Western Swing AND Cowboy Poetry. To help keep this music and poetry alive, I host a 2 hour, weekly radio show - "The Real West from the Old West" - on AM 1230 KOTS in Deming, NM. That radio show and this blog are my contribution to the genre! I hope you enjoy both!
Totsie Slover